


See You Next Tuesday

by highestkingbambi



Series: highestkingbambi’s Timeline 12 ‘verse [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: An education in oral sex, Cunnilingus, Drinking, Eliot is extra, F/M, Gratuitous Cussing, M/M, Margo is magnanimous, Quentin POV, Quentin is an eager little beaver, Todd is...there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-16 23:51:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14821257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highestkingbambi/pseuds/highestkingbambi
Summary: Sequel toSaliva Makes For Shitty LubeAfter finding out he was not successful in getting Margo off during the threesome with Eliot, Quentin starts to spiral.All it takes is a little push and Quentin gets his first real lesson in how to please a woman.





	See You Next Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

> Overwhelming thanks to WildeBones for betaing the shit out of this fic. 
> 
> It was supposed to be a little fic about oral sex but just like Quentin’s mind, it spiralled out of control.

Barely a day after the threesome, and already the glow starts to fade. Quentin shouldn’t find it surprising. Nothing ever lasts for him. 

“You surprise me Quentin. I had an inkling you swung both ways, but I never knew you preferred cock over cunt.” Eliot’s voice replays in his head. _Cock over cunt._ The words repeat over and over. _Cock over cunt._ There is nothing wrong with Eliot’s assumption. It just isn’t entirely true. Quentin can only jump to the conclusion that even though he’s been with way more women, (if five compared to two can really be considered way more, or was that now six to three?) he must not know how to please them. With no idea what to do about it, Quentin tries to put it out of his mind.

He’s gone months without getting laid, and whilst the threesome was incredible, it is easy to convince himself there won’t be a repeat right away. He figures he can surely go a little longer without addressing the growing anxiety he feels over his ability to please a woman. 

After a few days of trying to ignore it, the seed of doubt begins to over take his brain and he decides to consult an expert.

Asking Julia for advice turns out to be super awkward. Quentin isn’t sure if it’s because he listened to her with Alice or because she’s his best friend. When he asks her, he can’t keep it straight and neither can she. Everything they say to each other has them burst out laughing. She does offer him one idea; talk to someone who can comment on his skills. 

The problem, Margo is the only one he can reach with that experience. 

Margo still terrifies him, especially now that Eliot’s insinuated that he didn’t please her. Quentin knows that’s the whole point of why he needs to ask her, but the more he thinks about it, the more embarrassed he feels about asking. He buries the thoughts in the back of his mind again.

A terrible idea. Quentin should know better. He knows the way his brain works. Or rather; doesn’t work. How one little crack causes him to pick at it, to peel away the edges until what was a tiny issue turns into a gaping Sarlacc pit. Ready to eat him up and spit out his bones. 

For days it’s all he thinks about. He should be studying, or at least reminiscing, but all he does is ruminate on Eliot’s words. Paranoia takes root in his brain, convincing him that he might never have brought any woman he’s ever been with to orgasm.

———

A week after the threesome, Quentin sits with his legs up against his chest. Bass vibrations reverberate through the leather couch beneath him. It should be soothing, but it just serves to agitate his already antsy mind. Not for the first time, he wonders whether it would have been better for him to take up residence in the quiet Library Attic with the Knowledge students. Unfortunately his abilities skew further from that discipline than they do Physical and he has to remind himself that the plus side for living in the Cottage is the constant parties and distractions. 

If only those distractions worked. 

“Are you still freaking out that I said you were better at fucking me than Margo?” Quentin’s thoughts are interrupted by fingers snapping in front of his nose. He sees Eliot lower a tray before him, revealing two oddly shaped cocktail glasses. The type of glass eludes him despite Eliot having tried in vain to explain them to him on numerous occasions, and he thinks it’s probably time he starts paying more attention to his friend’s interests. A flaming cube of sugar rests upon each glass with pale green liquid below. “Blow,” Eliot commands, and out of habit Quentin does exactly as he’s told. “An apology,” Eliot says, gently pouring water over the sugar to turn the drink a darker green before offering it to him. “It was supposed to be a compliment, Quentin. Besides, not everyone can please a woman. At least it’s not the only option for you.”

“That’s not...Eliot I want to be good at that.” Quentin takes the drink and sinks back into the couch, the reminder of his failure has him wishing it would swallow him whole. 

“At what?” Eliot’s voice comes out higher than Quentin expects, but then he’s sipping what is probably absinthe and from the little he remembers from the last time Eliot had him drink it, he figures that has to be the cause. Returning the tray to the bar with a flick of his hands, Eliot takes a seat beside Quentin on the arm of the couch. 

“You know, _that_ ,” Quentin mumbles. He takes a sip of the drink himself and shudders at the combination of sickly sweet and bitter anise. How anyone could actively seek out the drink is beyond him. When he looks up at Eliot, towering over him, he sees his mild confusion form into a shit-eating grin and knows the embarrassment he’s currently feeling is only going to get worse. Quentin brings the glass back to his lips and tries not to shotgun the whole thing just to get it over with. 

“You shoved your tongue up my ass, and you can’t say ‘cunnilingus’?” Eliot teases. He slides from the edge of the couch, to sandwich himself between Quentin and the leather cushions. “Oh, Q,” Eliot says pulling Quentin’s head against his chest like a small child requiring comfort.

“Shut up Eliot.” Quentin turns red and half heartedly fights against the embrace. He tries in vain to push Eliot back up to the armrest, succeeding only in releasing himself from Eliot’s grip. Still getting used to the extra layer of familiarity resulting from the previous weeks exploits, Quentin struggles to work out what is too close, or not close enough. 

“If you want to be good at it, you should be able to say it. Repeat after me. _Cunnilingus._ ” Eliot messes with him, spacing out the syllables as if he is competing in a spelling bee. He wraps his arm around Quentin’s shoulders and taps their glasses together. 

“Eliot,” Quentin whines. His face burns and it’s not just from the alcohol. Almost finished his drink, Quentin swallows the last few sips and wonders how much more he’s going to be teased before he can go back to feeling sorry for himself.

“ _Cunnilingus._ ” This time Eliot breathes the word into his ear and Quentin remembers just how fucking annoying it is to be attracted to everyone. It shouldn’t be so hot to have a man he’s fucked tease him about his prowess with that same man’s best female friend, but there he is in the middle of a party on the verge of getting hard. Part of him wonders if he’s developing a shame kink. He’s definitely not ready to look into that. 

“Did someone call for me?” Margo appears suddenly on the couch beside him, and runs her fingers up his thigh. If his face was red before, Quentin doesn’t want to know what colour it is now. How she got there and why she arrives at the exact time he’s thinking about her is beyond him, but she’s Margo. She knows everything. 

“Our boy here wants your help.” Too concerned with his own discomfort at being thrown in the deep end, Quentin misses the sight of Eliot clenching his teeth. He wishes he was still held against Eliot’s chest to avoid looking her in the eye.

“And what do you think I can...” She turns to address him, her fingers stopping at the top of his thigh. “Or would be willing to do for you?” She squeezes him tightly and doesn’t let go. Almost as if she knows exactly what he’s thinking, and that can never be a good thing. Still, he’s over the feelings of inadequacy at his abilities and the way that Eliot’s words repeat in his mind whenever he stops thinking. _Cock over cunt._ He wants to be equally good at both and wallowing on the couch in the middle of a party isn’t going to help anyone. 

Fuck it. What does he really have to lose?

Having already finished his own drink, Quentin steals what is left of Eliot’s and tosses it back like water, desperate for liquid courage. 

“Thank god I only went for 40 proof this time,” Eliot says, barely loud enough for Quentin to hear. 

Filled with the bravado that only mild intoxication can provide, Quentin turns to Margo, takes a deep breath. He swallows hard and goes for it. 

“I know I didn’t…” Quentin takes another breath and while he considers his word choice, he feels an encouraging squeeze on his shoulder from Eliot. He decides that when it comes to Margo, blunt is best. “I didn’t make you orgasm the other day. I want you to teach me how to do better.” 

“Haven’t you picked up a set of balls since last week?” she says, with a look of mischief. “We’re keeping him,” Margo says to Eliot. She removes her hand from Quentin’s thigh and taps her fingers on his lips. “I could help, but, I don’t see what’s in it for me.” 

Her response leaves him fumbling for an answer, part of him expected an immediate no, even if he was naively hoping for a resounding yes. His mouth moves despite the lack of words, before he shuts it completely. Neither Margo nor Eliot are paying attention to him. 

Quentin sighs and gives up, letting his eyes wander the party. He hopes that he can find a way to escape. Catching sight of Todd across the room making a beeline for them on the couch, Quentin sees an opportunity and tries to get Margo’s attention. Eliot gets it first, shaking his head in a wordless display that looks a little like ‘don’t you dare’, and Quentin finally notices that they’re in the middle of a silent conversation. Probably about him.

“Sorry Todd, can’t chat, have to help Coldwater here with his studies. I’m sure Eliot can help you, whatever your problem is,” Margo heads off any questions from her fellow second year. She stands and smoothes down her dress while Quentin stares, wide eyed and struggling to believe she’s agreeing to help him, even if it was just to avoid dealing with Todd. She grabs his hand and pulls him from the couch. 

“Right now?” He asks, though it’s clear she’s made up her mind. Margo nods. The corners of her mouth turn up into the tiniest smile and she links her fingers with his. 

“I’m watching,” Eliot says, and makes to follow them. 

“Not this time babe,” Margo presses her free hand to Eliot’s chest and gently shoves him back onto the couch and at the mercy of Todd’s endless enthusiasm.

“Rude,” Eliot sighs, leaving them to walk upstairs to Margo’s bedroom. Quentin thinks he hears Eliot mutter something under his breath, but he’s too busy being ushered upstairs to pay it any mind. 

———

Once upstairs and inside Margo’s room, Quentin can’t help but take in everything he sees. He isn’t sure what he expected, but it really wasn’t the sparse walls and bohemian decor. Her room is a typical female college room. 

It feels like blasphemy to think of Margo associated with anything typical. 

“Alright. Before we even start, show me your nails,” Margo commands, refocusing his attention. Not even bothering to wait for him, she grabs his wrists and inspects his fingers. Light murmurs under her breath indicate that he’s already failed and they haven’t even begun. “This needs to be fixed.”

“They’re clean, I even scrub under the nails and everything,” Quentin protests, but he’s not confident. There’s a reason he came to her in the first place. Pride isn’t going to help him get any better.

“Clean isn’t everything Quentin. These are ragged saws. Do you have some secret Ripper fetish because I can’t say I’m surprised, but it’s not happening here.” Margo doesn’t even look at him as she runs her fingers along the tips of his nails before flicking up at the broken skin.

Obviously disappointed with him, she shoves him onto her bed without ceremony. Turning away, she searches her vanity for the tools needed to fix his nails. Once armed with scissors and a file, she sits beside him and takes his hand.

“I’m going to take a stab,” she punctuates the last word by snapping the tiny scissors dangerously close to his face. “And guess that before me, you’ve only been with timid little college freshmen,” she says, cutting away at the overhanging nails. “Shame, really. We wouldn’t have so much work to do if they just told you the truth.”

“You didn’t, last time...” Quentin lets his voice trail off, unsure as to why he’s calling her out when she’s holding a weapon and doing so much to help him. 

“We both know that was all about you and El, I was only there to move things along,” she replies without looking at him. 

Unsure of what to say in response, Quentin finds himself nodding, his mouth agape. Certain he looks stupid, he closes his mouth and focuses his attention on watching her as she trims his nails into perfect rounded shapes that barely overhang the nail beds, he tries to memorise to procedure. Her touch is so gentle he barely feels it, and it’s hard for him to believe she’s the same woman who has a running tally of men she’s made cry. Margo makes short work out of it, and quickly proceeds to filing the edges down with a tool he’s never seen so small. The only files he’s ever used were giant things in high school Woodshop and he’s done his best over the years to blank the memories. No wonder she was so disappointed with him at her first look. 

“Do you have a spare one of those?” He asks. “For next time.”

“Quentin, this isn’t something you do only when you know you’re going to shove your fingers up a cunt...or asshole,” Margo winks at him, but she has a stern look on her face, as if she’s giving him the most important advice of the night. “This is a long term commitment to all your future partners.”

“Do you and Eliot share some kind of curse of the day calendar?” He tries to be playful, knowing full well that she’s being real with him, and he needs to respect that. Unfortunately thanks to Eliot, he’s been repeating the word cunt in his mind for the past week and he just can’t help himself.

“What?” She snaps back and tightens her grip on his hands.

“Ow! I just mean, I’ve never heard you say that before and the other day Eliot did too and it’s just a surprise. I always thought saying ‘cunt’ was worse than saying fuck to priest during church.” Quentin winces at the sound of his voice saying a word he’s always been told not to use, but it just makes Margo burst into laughter. 

“We were protecting your innocent little ears,” she explains before getting up to put the scissors and file back and pick up a strange looking block. “But since you showed us what a dirty little pervert you are…” she continues, returning to her place on the bed and taking his hands again. “You don’t need protection. You need supervision.”

“I-I- look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t done the same thing.” Quentin tries to deflect her unsettlingly accurate barb.

“Eugh. The trick is to not get caught, genius.” Margo says, rolling her eyes so far back he fears they’ll drop right out of her head. She brings the strange block to his nails and rubs it against the tops and edges with forceful efficiency.

Quentin mumbles his apologies as she finishes buffing his nails. Once satisfied with her handiwork, she brings his fingers up to her lips and blows on them. Somehow Margo manages to take what should be disastrously clinical and definitely awkward and turns it into something that he’s certain will be enjoyable. 

“Now that we have that out of the way, you have to make sure your lips are nice and moist, they were a li-“ Margo trails off, watching him change from eager student to hopeless mess. 

Quentin can’t help the visceral reaction he has to hearing her say moist. Even in her voice it makes him physically ill. Body shaking, he holds in a gag. Internally he’s drowning in images of shared bathrooms in mental health facilities. Towels that hang limp from steam covered rails. Never fully drying and developing that wet animal smell even without the presence of fur. 

“Seriously, is this cause I said moist? Because I fucking love that word,” Margo bites, placing emphasis on the one word guaranteed to make him sick. 

The second time is not so terrible. Knowing it was coming he could brace himself for it, only shaking internally and feeling the slight erection he had developed shrivel up and disappear. 

“Alright, alright. I’ll lay off it now, but I’m not gonna stand to have someone who has gone down on me be such a pussy.”

“You don’t get it,” he protests. She looks up at him, a question in her eyes and he hopes she sticks to her word and does not press him for it. It’s not the time, nor the place to bring up uncomfortable recollections and even if it were, he wasn’t sure she would ever be a person he could share that with. 

“When did you last shave?” She asks, seeming to understand his reservations and helps him move on. 

“Uh, like four days ago? Why? Is that bad?” Quentin brings his hands up to cover his face, terrified that if it’s not good enough she’ll get out a razor. The thought of Margo with a blade arouses him again but in a way that gives him pause. Fear is hardly the right frame of mind for him to learn in.

“Depends…” she tugs at his arm to drop his hands and runs her finger along his jawline once it’s clear. She hums softly and nods her approval. “This works for me.”

“Umm, that’s good I guess.” Quentin can’t help but grin at her playful gesture. The tension that had built in his body from the earlier fear was starting to fade. 

“Can we go back to the confident Q from last week?” She asks. Eyes wide with what Quentin feels is genuine care, she brings her thumb up to his chin and gently rubs a small circle. 

“I’m getting there, I promise,” he answers, relaxing into her touch. 

“You better, Eliot may like a nervous top, but I-” he cuts her off with a deliberate kiss. She pulls away and bites her bottom lip, hands grasping at the collar of his shirt. “It’s rude to interrupt.”

“Then maybe we should stop talking and get to practicing.” Quentin takes her by the wrists and removes her hands from his shirt. His words are tacky and lacking any imagination, and he expects her to rebuff him and end their training session. To his surprise she kisses him back. 

Continuing the kiss, Quentin guides them down onto the bed. With her wrists still bound by his hands, he brings them above her head. He feels her smile against his lips, and tries to slip his tongue through the opening only to be denied. Instead, she bites down, narrowly missing his tongue. Easily slipping from the grasp Quentin thought he held her captive in, she pulls them apart. 

“Don’t waste your energy. You have a lot of work to do,” she says defiantly. 

Back in charge (not that she ever really lost the upper hand) Margo finds a hair tie on her nightstand and hands it to him. He tries in vain to tie his hair back, flailing as the endless strands refuse to remain bound by the thin elastic. 

“I can’t believe I’m interested in someone as pathetic as you,” Margo sighs, snatching the hair tie from him. Shifting on the bed, she gets onto her knees and brings herself up so his head is dangerously close to her chest. Trying to keep himself perfectly still, Quentin holds his breath and attempts to avoid staring at her gorgeous breasts that he so desperately wants to touch, to bring his tongue around the dark nipples that he knows hide beneath her dress. He dares not encourage her ire, still unsure if she was complimenting or insulting him. 

Flicking the tie to her wrist, Margo runs her fingers through the sides of his hair, detangling the messy brown strands as she makes her way to the ends. Repeating the action, this time with her thumbs, she stops at his crown and presses lightly. She brings hers hands together, and slips the elastic over gracefully tying it back. 

“Better,” she says, dropping back down to the bed. 

Touching a tentative hand to his hair, he feels naked with the strands so far from his face. Even with only half of it up, there is nothing to hide behind. No place safe from her piercing doe eyes. Quentin tries to look away, but she touches her fingers to his elbow, runs them down to his wrist, silently convincing him to drop his hand to her thigh. 

“If this were a real seduction situation, you would need to do some serious foreplay. Lucky for you, it’s not. Besides, I have to admit you were pretty good last time, you don’t need training in that department,” Margo explains. 

She leans up and gives him a final close mouthed kiss, licking his lips as she breaks away. He can almost hear her say the word she knows not to say, but this time it doesn’t matter. Snaking her legs around his body, Margo lifts up the skirt of her dress to reveal that she’s been naked underneath the whole time. He can’t even pretend it surprises him, yet it still brings a pink tinge to his cheeks. Quentin reaches out to touch the strip of hair he remembers so fondly from their previous time together. 

Tracing his finger down the short hairs, he stops at the edge of her outer lips and considers his next move. Quentin shuffles down on the bed to find a better position and drops his head between her thighs. Playing it safe, he leaves light kisses along the inside of her legs, slowly making his way back up to her lips. He sucks on the thin skin in the crease of her leg and gently rubs his thumb over where he expects to find her clit, hoping that she’s already starting to get wet. He thumbs across her, panicking that everything he is doing is wrong and drops his hand to try again with his tongue. 

“Hold up. Q, seriously, stop,” she says, tapping him on the head. Quentin raises his head to see her sitting upright and follows suit. He’s pretty sure that whatever he was doing wrong has her wanting him to leave, and apologises silently while trying to escape from the bed. “Where are you going?” She almost growls at him, causing him to stop in his tracks. “Get back on the bed, we’re not done here.”

Doing as he’s told, he sits back down, head bowed away from her. 

“What are you trying to get from this? Is this just an excuse to hook up with me, some sad desperate masculine pride thing, or do you really want to do a better job in the future?” She asks, her tone significantly softer than before. Bringing a hand to his face, Margo lifts his chin to look him in the eye. 

Despite wanting to recoil, Quentin falls deep into her eyes. Genuinely thrown, he doesn’t know how to respond, only that it’s definitely not the middle option. It’s probably not the first option either, but when he thinks about it, he’s anything but opposed to the idea. Margo is one of the most impressive people he’s ever met, and when she isn’t scaring the shit out of him, he can almost see himself falling for her. But that’s never going to be what she’s interested in, not really, and besides just the week before he’d been crushing on Alice. And Eliot. He still is. 

“I want to do better, I really do…” he answers, hoping the delay doesn’t cost him. “And I really liked going down on you.”

“Then stop treating this like a list of steps you need to follow, and start listening to my body,” she says, staring him down until he nods his understanding. “I’m trying to guide you, but you gotta feel it too.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Quentin replies, lowering his head and trying to make himself small. A subconscious submissive pose in case she takes his acquiescence the wrong way. 

“You’re such a fucking nerd,” she laughs, allowing Quentin to release the pose. “Come on, you promised you’d get me off, now do it.”

“I think I’ll be better if you let me kiss you first,” he says. “If you’ll let me,” he adds to make sure she doesn’t think he’s trying to demand her. 

When she nods her agreement, Quentin brushes non existent hairs from his face and leans into kiss her again. He should be able to go down on her without the extra help, but he’s never been so methodical about sex—at least not physically. 

If only he met Margo sooner. She was completely right when she commented about his previous female partners lacking the confidence to tell him what they really wanted. It makes sense, prior to Brakebills his luck with the opposite sex was limited to girls just as timid and inexperienced as him. He never knew if what he was doing worked, or if they were just humouring him. Even if her words were often harsh, Quentin appreciates Margo’s brutal honesty. 

Taking her by the waist he brings their bodies together. Chest flush with her breasts, he takes a beat from kissing to brings his fingers up her thigh, feeling her shiver under his touch. Encouraged, he drops his lips to her neck, softly sucking her skin. His fingers trace from her thigh to reach her vulva, tentatively exploring as she arches her body into him. Starting with his fingers has him feeling far more confident than before. With renewed enthusiasm, he finds the courage to go down on her. Without the apprehension of before. 

Quentin spreads Margo’s legs and drops between them. Hungry to please her, he grins against her, placing a cheeky kiss upon her pubic bone. He nuzzles into her hair, while his tongue traces wavering circles around her clitoris. Around his head her thighs tighten, and he assumes that is her spurring him on. He continues his motions, gradually speeding up until he hears her tell him to just go for it. 

Flicking the tip of his tongue over her clitoris he tastes her bittersweetness, similar on the palette and yet not at all like the absinthe he earlier imbibed. Somehow it reminds him of watching decadent but historically inaccurate films with ancient rulers being fed fruit dipped in expensive dark chocolate. His imagination first jumps the kind of chocolate made from small batches in Brooklyn warehouses and sold for $40 a block. Still, he knows if it were her choosing, it would be even more expensive and imported from somewhere very specific in Europe. He may just have to ask around for her favourite type as a thank you gift. 

This time Margo is more vocal in her guidance. He hears her tell him to vary his speed, change direction and use those fucking fingers she put all that effort into fixing. Following her wishes, he slides his middle finger into her opening, feeling her developing wetness. It’s clear that he still has a ways to go, but her encouraging noises and movements keep him going. 

“Curl it.” He hears her order and starts to curl his tongue before he realises she means his finger. Twisting it until it resembles a question mark, he slides it in and out, all the while maintaining his pressure over her clitoris with his eager mouth. 

“You can fit another finger. Or more,” she says, too clearly for where he wants her to be by this point. He does as she says and has to remind himself that it’s not about speed. If he learned anything at all from listening to Julia and Alice, it’s that this can last for hours. Quentin doesn’t know if he’s ready to last longer than a network sitcom. No matter what, he’s willing to try. 

Three fingers down, massaging as vigorously as her body spurs him to, Quentin renews his focus on her clit, sucking on the sensitive skin, until a hand reaches into his hair and gently tugs him back. 

“Too much, it’s not a bee sting,” she instructs and he immediately ceases his actions. Returning to the use of his tongue, Quentin rolls it over the parts of her body that responded the best way before he took the wrong approach. He twists it around the folds of her inner lips, tasting her on himself when his tongue collides with his massaging fingers. She yanks at his ponytail, pulling him back up with an order to resume the massage of her clit. 

Sharp strokes, first with the tip and then the flat of his tongue cause her to moan and Quentin finally feels like he’s getting somewhere. His confidence boosting by her sounds, he increases the pressure on her clitoris. At the same time, his fingers speed up inside of her taking care to keep them curled to hit her g spot. 

She moans her agreement for him to keep going. Naked legs wrap tightly around his neck and he can hardly keep his fingers inside her any longer. For a brief moment, his thoughts wander to the pressure inside his pants, but he has to squash it. Everything is about pleasing Margo, his own needs can be taken care of later. 

Pulling at his hair, he thinks that she may be close, and increases the speed with which he traces shapes inside her lips. Sweat pools all over his neck and he’s certain that it doesn’t just belong to him. She tugs at his ponytail, and he finds himself even more aroused, his body writhing on the bed while he does everything her body tells him to do. Slow deliberate strokes with the flat of his tongue, cause her to constrict around him and he follows it up with lightning fast flicks with the tip as she seems to pass over the edge. 

A fist forms in his hair and Margo almost lets out a scream. Her legs go limp and drop to his side. After a final pull she releases his ponytail. Taking it as a sign that it’s over, he looks up at her to see her covering her mouth. Modesty is an odd look on her but it helps his ego. 

“The rest of the Cottage is not finding out what I’m teaching you,” she says through broken breaths. It tears him down a few notches, but from Margo that’s an admission he was good enough and that’s more than most could say. With a lazy flick of the wrist, she indicates that he come join her up the top of the bed. 

Quentin crawls up next to her, turning to lie flat on his back. Shirt crushed and riding up on his chest, his own erection is obvious to any trained eye. The sight doesn’t escape Margo’s notice, and she gives him a lazy wink. For a second he thinks she’s going to offer to help him out, but that’s just wishful thinking. 

“You’re going to want to do something about that, I’ve heard blue balls are terrible for your sexual health,” she says and he pretty sure that’s his cue to leave. 

“Not offering?” He jokingly asks her, gradually becoming more aware that she’s done with him for the night. 

“Not this time sweetie,” she replies and he’s incapable of deciphering if she’s being facetious, or if it’s a genuine offer. She leans over to give him a peck on the lips before shes sits up the bed and pulls her dress down to cover herself up. Finally, Quentin takes the hint to leave. 

Making his exit, he wonders if he’s capable of gargling with some mouthwash and returning to the party or if he should just go to his own room and jerk off. Attention elsewhere, he walks right into the main reason he would go downstairs stalking the hallway. 

“So, do I call you the ‘pussy whisperer’ now?” Eliot asks and Quentin detects a hint of bitterness beneath the sarcasm. 

“More like the King of Cunt,” he jokes, immediately regretting his words. Quentin drops his head to hide his beaming pride and shoves his hands in his pockets. Something is off with Eliot and he’s pretty sure bragging about getting Margo off is going to end badly. 

Instead of coming back at him with something clever and witty that he would be admiring for days, Eliot hooks his fingers into Quentin’s belt loops and pulls him against his body. Already warm from his earlier exertion, his body temperature rises. Threading his fingers into the base of Quentin’s still tied up hair, Eliot looks as if he wants to say something, then reconsiders. 

Quentin rolls his body forward and into Eliot’s chest. He hears a sharp exhale and looks up just in time to see Eliot close his eyes. Knowing what is about to happen, but completely unsure as to why, Quentin tries to empty his mind. He doesn’t want to ruin whatever this is with his characteristic overthinking. Standing on his toes, his lips meet with Eliot’s in a desperate lock. The hand in his hair keeps them together with a force that was missing from their previous kisses, and Quentin can’t tell what he prefers. 

In an awkward dance of impatient limbs they end up against the wall, Quentin’s body pressing hard into the dark wallpapered plasterboard. The fingers that Eliot kept looped in his pants, crawl up from his belt to Quentin’s belly, gentling placing pressure on the soft skin, just as he had the previous week. Flooding with images of pale, naked skin, sweat pooling in dark curly chest hair, Quentin palms his own hand to Eliot’s cock, feeling it tense against his touch. Why didn’t they just do this earlier?

The hand in Quentin’s hair tightens its grip, tearing at strands. He tries to hold in a yelp, not wanting to ruin the moment in case Eliot thinks he doesn’t like the pain. Instead, Eliot presses into him harder, his thumb flicking open the button of his jeans. The zipper follows, and he sighs as the erection he’s been sporting since Eliot first sat down beside him at the party releases. 

Breaking their lips apart to breathe for just a moment, Quentin continues to fondle Eliot through his trousers. With his free hand, he takes Eliot by the jaw, and presses their lips together. This time he slides his tongue through the small parting, grazing it along Eliot’s teeth before rolling it over his tongue. He tastes the aftermath of more absinthe, and wonders just how much Eliot had to drink after they left him. 

Out of nowhere, Eliot breaks the kiss, and pushes Quentin against the wall before stepping back from him.

“I-“ Eliot starts to speak, raising a finger between them. “Not like this.”

Quentin tries to bridge the gap, but Eliot waves him off. He watches as the man who seemed so into what they were doing turns his back to him and walks towards Margo’s bedroom. Eliot pauses at her door, his fingers hover over the handle turning into a fist as he spins on his feet and retreats to his own room without so much as a glance back at Quentin. 

Lost and a little confused, with no reason for him to return to the party, Quentin decides to go to his own room. After the threesome, he purchased new lube and thanks to Eliot’s little display of intense machismo, all he can think about is lathering his cock and masturbating to memories and mental images of both him and a writhing Margo. Quentin figures he better get the most out of whatever was going on between them all before someone decides they need to talk about their feelings.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing bad and then simply adequate oral sex is really fucking hard. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated.


End file.
